


How to Retcon the Apocalypse

by predominantly_normal



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Punk Band Au, Somewhat Toxic Relationship Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predominantly_normal/pseuds/predominantly_normal
Summary: Nerris' world threatens to collapse after Nikki, her girlfriend of two years and the drummer of her up-and-coming punk band, decides to leave both Nerris and the band behind. But when a brush with amnesia leaves Nikki with virtually no memory of anything, Nerris decides to take the opportunity as a chance to try again with her.[Punk Musician!AU][Nerris/Nikki][Multichap]





	How to Retcon the Apocalypse

Chapter One  
Scorched Earth

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs? Like, with your band or whatever?” Across the plastic foldout table, a short girl with electric yellow hair and enough black makeup to send a Catholic to church is staring at Nerris like she’s a lost kid.

Nerris can’t help it. She rolls her eyes.

“Shouldn’t _you_ be paying attention to the door?”

The girl gestures over to the screen door. Outside, a handful of college kids are bumming cigarettes and taking photos on their phones. The girls have piercings and half-tees, and the guys are dressed like Joey Ramone stole clothes from a truck driver.

Nobody’s making a move to come inside yet.

“Consider my door-whore duties fulfilled,” the girl says. “So, what are you guys, high schoolers?”

“Just graduated.”

“I can tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, seriously,” the girl breaks out into a smile. “You just look fresh to the whole house show scene.”

“I’m a seasoned veteran, actually. Can’t you tell?”

It’s a somewhat sarcastic remark. Nerris knows that her thick-rimmed _Harry Potter_ glasses and her D&D graphic tees and paint-splatter jeans make her look more like a middle-schooler in the anime club than a serious punk musician. She couldn’t care less, though. She considers her style a great big _fuck you_ to how detestably fashionable punk has become.

Prime example: this sad excuse of a goth girl _poseur_ manning the admissions jar at the door.

“Well, you should probably get to your sound check, then. Don’t want your electric ukulele or whatever to blow out our speakers,” the girl says, pulling out her phone and unlocking it.

“God, this is why we never show at the Place of Bass house. You guys seriously suck,” Nerris groans.

“One-thousand streams on Spotify and you act like you’re the shit.”

“four-thousand, six-hundred, and forty-two,” Nerris corrects with a retainer-clad, shit-eating grin. “And that’s just as of this morning. But please, brag about how many downloads the Flaming Puppies got on their ninety-nine cent BandCamp EP.”

The girl flips her off, and a stick-n-poke finger tattoo is put on display. “Whatever. Just don’t kill the vibe with your knockoff Twenty-One Pilots discography, okay?”

“For comparing my band to Twenty-One Pilots, I am taking the initiative to steal your alcohol.”

“Fridge is next to the staircase,” the girl says, pointing further into the house. “Put the wood block back when you’re done.”

Nerris doesn’t have to wonder what the girl means for long, because as soon as she gets to the fridge, she notices that the bottom door is being propped up by a scrap of two-by-four. Nerris wriggles the door open, kicking the block aside as she peers into a holy grail of boxed wine, Budweiser, Miller Light, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Mike’s Hard, and So Many Energy Drinks.

Nerris isn’t keen on drinking before anything that requires brainpower—performances, working on her campaigns, killing the shit out of monsters in Lord of the Rings Online, et-cetera—so she just grabs a Red Bull for herself before nabbing three tall cans of Coors Light for her bandmates.

She kicks the wood block back into place and shuts the fridge door. Then, she heads downstairs.

She’s always had a love-hate relationship for house show venues. On one hand, there’s no better way to be sure that the people you’re performing for really _get it_. On the other hand, the ‘stage’ is usually just a hot, sweaty basement lined with asbestos.

The stage tonight doubles as the house owners’ laundry room, and there’s a washer and dryer pressed up against the audience’s side of the floor. A few stage lights are zip-tied to the ceiling, pointing down at a mess of wires and subwoofer amps. A spray-painted sign nailed up to the back wall displays the venue’s name, PLACE OF BASS, surrounded by Christmas lights. Beer cans are shoved into the rafters, each one signed by the members of the bands that have shown here.

Nerris finds an empty spot where she wants to put a can for her band, Critical Mutiny.

“Did you come up with a setlist yet?” Max asks. He’s standing off to the side of the stage, tuning his flat black Stratocaster guitar.

Nerris doesn’t exactly know how she managed to become the band’s creative front-man, but she figures that it’s because Max doesn’t care enough to worry about things like setlists and album covers. He’s one-hundred percent business—their de-facto manager.

He sets up the venues, works out the release schedule for their music releases, and runs the online merch shop. Whether songs do or do not make the cut for their albums and EPs, the YouTube channel, and all other social media is carefully curated by Nerris. They work best together that way: when they both stay in their own fucking lanes.

“I was thinking we could do some of our newer stuff, from the last album,” Nerris says. She throws one of the beers to Max, and hands the other off to Harrison.

“Oh, maybe we could do Haunted Mansion?” Harrison perks up.

“For the last time, we are not putting your dumb ‘sensitive sad boy’ acoustic crap on a setlist. This is a rock show at a college house, not a poetry sharing circle at group therapy,” Nerris groans.

“Well, I was just offering. You didn’t have to be so mean about it.”

“Harrison, the last time we played your shitty original music, people left in the middle of the performance to take bathroom breaks.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

Harrison adjusts his tie and plucks out a few mindless scales on his bass. He looks the least like he belongs here, dressed up in attire purchased straight from the _Thirty-Five, Unmarried, and in Accounting_ catalogue. When they first started out, Harrison was also trying to kickstart his career doing magic at kid’s birthday parties. Now, in the most backwards turn of events, he’s using Critical Mutiny to financially support his dreams of being a full-time magician.

Nerris glances at the last can of beer in her hands. “Max, where’s Nikki?”

“Outside,” Max says. “I think she needed some fresh air or something dumb like that. She wouldn’t say.”

Gritting her teeth, Nerris smacks the beer down on the washing machine next to her and marches over to the stage. “Okay, yeah, I have a setlist.” Unzipping her ukulele case, she yanks out a red mini-notebook full of half-baked song ideas, chords, and random ideas for D&D characters.

She picks five songs: all fast, all angry, and all with an adequate amount of screaming. They’re all also coincidentally written by Max.

All four of them have written lyrics for songs—though Max and Nerris have done the most work in that department. Nerris’ songs dominated the first EP, but Max thinks they’re too niche to be accessible to a wide audience, and so the albums have been pretty evenly split since then.

Still, their most popular song to date has been written by Harrison—something they’ve both decided was clearly a fluke.

“Jesus, Nerris, did you like, have a bad session yesterday?” Max asks as soon as Nerris pens the setlist down.

“My sessions have been perfectly fine ever since I stepped up as the full-time dungeon master,” Nerris huffs back. _“And_ after I convinced all three of our party’s Tieflings to switch classes.”

“Then what’s with all the angry tracks? Not that I’m not fucking peached to give myself carpal tunnel playing Scorched Earth and Antipathy in one show or anything. Just curious.”

“It’s literally nothing,” Nerris assures him.

Cue a roll for deception.

Nerris has been in the shittiest mood since noon, when Nikki decided to drop the bomb on her that their two-year relationship just wasn’t cutting it anymore. One minute they were having a nice lunch date, as was their tradition before shows, and the next, Nikki was talking about how she couldn’t see their relationship going any further through a mouthful of Chipotle.

So, maybe Nerris just needs to vent a little. Maybe Nerris needs to vent a lot. Maybe Nerris needs to let loose like a mentally disturbed thirteen-year-old at his first therapy session. Either way, it’s going to happen.

She straps her ukulele around her neck and puts the capo on the second fret. She makes sure she remembers all the lyrics to the second verse of Antipathy, and she does a run-through of her solos with Max.

Then it’s off to find Nikki, because there are twenty minutes left until the opener, and she still hasn’t had the nerve to show her face. Even Max doesn’t have anything snarky to say as Nerris storms up the basement steps to look for her.

By the time she gets upstairs, she notices that there’s a sizable crowd overflowing onto the house’s lawn. She marches up to the girl at the door, who meets her gaze with what can only be described as a look of respect.

“Why have I never heard of your band before?” she asks. “Everyone I’ve asked says they’re coming here to see Critical Mutiny play.”

“Well, our music is pretty awesome, so,” Nerris trails off. “Anyways, have you seen our drummer anywhere? She’s short, has dyed green hair. Kind of looks like what would happen if a fairy and a barbarian had a miracle baby.”

“Oh, her? Yeah. Check out back. I think she’s hanging out with a few guys from the Mission Tyler band.”

Nerris thanks the girl for the tip and heads outside. Her rubber boots sink into the mud as she pushes through the gate into the back. They have another makeshift stage here, overlooking a pizza-box graveyard and a haphazard fire pit.

Nerris’ eyes fall on two things instantly: 1.) Nikki, and 2.) the tall blonde girl Nikki is currently talking to.

Nikki’s face is a little flushed, and she’s talking with her hands. The blonde girl laughs into her hand coyly, playfully slapping Nikki’s shoulder at one of her jokes.

Nerris feels the knife in her chest twist as she marches up to them and grabs Nikki by the arm. “Seriously, Nikki? We’ve been going over the setlist for the past half-hour. What have you been doing?” She holds her tongue before she can spit out the question that she really wants answered: _How have you already moved on?_

“I’ve just been, you know, networking,” Nikki lies, gesturing to the girl. “This is Leah. She’s the bassist for Mission Tyler, the band that’s playing right after us.”

“I’m like, a huge fan of your work,” Leah says, offering Nerris a coolheaded smile. “I’ve had your new album on repeat for the past like, two weeks.”

“What an honor,” Nerris says, smiling politely. She pulls Nikki’s arm and whispers into her ear, “Downstairs, now.”

Nikki winces, forcing a smile on her face as she looks back at Leah. “Band stuff. Can’t wait to see you guys play.”

“Like, you too,” Leah waves her away, turning back to her bandmates.

As soon as they’re out of view and earshot, Nikki yanks her arm free of Nerris’ grip. “Really, Nerris? What gives?”

“This is our last show before our tour starts next Friday,” Nerris hisses back. “Maybe you could at least pretend to care.”

Nikki glares at Nerris, and Nerris hates that she’s still attracted to Nikki when she’s being a total jerk. Nikki sucks in her cheeks and stares down at the ground. “Fine,” she says, and pushes past Nerris to disappear down the basement.

* * *

They play hard. They play fast. Max even convinces a few of the drunker kids in the crowd to mosh around a little while they play their last song.

By the end of it, Nerris’ vocal chords are completely shattered. Even thanking the crowd feels like testing the patience of a looming sore throat. After their set, they pack up their things while Mission Tyler gets ready for their own performance.

Harrison brings his acoustic guitar to the porch to play some of his original stuff while Nerris and Max shove their instruments, pedal boards, and amps into the back of Max’s car/home. Nikki stays down and hangs out with the Leah, which, now that the adrenaline’s off, kind of just makes Nerris want to puke.

“Close the fucking trunk already,” Max says, “Jesus, are you on drugs or something tonight?”

Nerris shakes off the bad feeling in her stomach. She shuts the trunk door and turns around with a scowl. “Why? Did I mess up a lyric? Because I’m ninety-six percent sure that I was technically perfect during our performance.”

“It’s not the set,” Max shakes his head. “Just…you. You’re freaking me out, dude. Nikki, too. Is something up between you guys? Not that I care. But if something’s going on, you better figure it out by Friday. Nothing is allowed to fuck with this tour, do you understand me?”

“The tour is of just as much importance to me as it is to you,” Nerris says back.

Max narrows his eyes. “Fine. We’re meeting up with the guys from Pride Patrol tomorrow at Kennedy’s Grill to finalize dates and to get some social media traction going. Noon, sharp. You staying at Nikki’s tonight?”

Nerris winces without meaning too. She’s been so mad for the past few hours that she hasn’t even thought about where she’ll be sleeping tonight. It’s not like she can go home—not after dropping the news to her parents that she’d declined a scholarship from the local community college in order to play a three-month tour across Western America with her high school garage band.

She stays three nights a week at Nikki’s house anyways. Candy, Nikki’s mom, isn’t ever home, so it’s practically like they’d already sort of moved into their own place together.

Which is yet another reason that the breakup took her by complete surprise.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” is all Nerris can manage to say.

“If you do, take a pic for the Instagram. People love those stupid pictures of you and Nikki being gross together.” Max’s expression softens marginally. “If you don’t, you can crash at Neil’s. Key’s always under the mat, don’t open his bedroom door if it’s closed unless you want to see my bare ass staring back at you.”

“Yeah,” Nerris says, grimacing at the imagery. “Sure thing.”

Nerris is certain that Critical Mutiny’s meant to make it, because it’s already made one of the world’s greatest miracles happen: getting her and Max to be friends. With music between them, Max can tolerate Nerris’ tirades on the Hobbit movie adaptations, and Nerris can overlook the fact that Max is the most insufferable human being on planet Earth.

* * *

They stay for the rest of the show, watching Mission Tyler exhaust themselves on their high-intensity black-metal setlist, and they all sign a beer can before leaving.

Max takes Harrison in his sedan, and Nerris and Nikki try not to let awkwardness consume them as they both get into Nerris’ baby blue PT Cruiser.

“So, did you tell them yet?” Nikki asks, bouncing her leg and staring out the window as they pull away from the Place of Bass. "Neither of them asked me about it yet, and so I just figured-,"

“Seeing as I’m still trying to process this myself? Not really,” Nerris says. “Plus, with all the stress on the upcoming tour-,”

“Actually, can we talk about the tour?” Nikki bursts out. She does this thing where she talks a mile-a-minute when she’s nervous, and beats around the bush like telling things straight is a federal offense. Nerris used to think it was cute. Right now, though, she can’t be less annoyed by it. “So, I was actually talking it over with Leah, since Mission Tyler did a weeklong tour last June, and they said that the best months to tour are actually the summer months, and we missed our chance this year but maybe next-,”

“We’re not rescheduling the tour. We’ve known about this since before graduation,” Nerris says stiffly.

“Yes, but like, I don’t know—I feel like we need some time as a band to readjust, you know? Especially after, you know, what happened? Between you and me?”

“You broke up with me. So what?” Nerris says, and the words feel like blood in her mouth. 

“I don't know. I guess that, you know, the setlist seemed kind of...hostile tonight? I mean, Exorcism is literally a metaphor for your ex being a demon,” Nikki says. “All I'm trying to say is that if I'm messing with the band synergy or whatever-,"

“Hold on,” Nerris hits the brakes hard enough to send Nikki lurching. “Please tell me you're not trying to leave Critical Mutiny right now.”

“No! No, of course not,” Nikki grins meekly. She rubs her fingers over her neck, where her seatbelt cut into her, and shifts the shoulder strap around behind her. “I was just—maybe I should go on a break from the whole music thing?”

Go on break. Those were the exact words Nikki used when she broke up with Nerris not more than twelve hours ago.

_I just think we need to grow as people, you know? It's nothing serious. I just want to go on break._

The only thing that’s going to be breaking at this point is Nerris’ foot up Nikki’s ass. “We go on tour literally next week, and you’re just telling me now that you want to quit the band? After Max and I made the biggest sacrifices of our lives, you want to _quit?_ ”

“You can find another drummer!” Nikki snaps. “It’s not like I write any of our songs or anything anymore.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it!” Nerris shoots back. "God, you suck."

“Then what is? Because I’m pretty confused right about now, and I’d like to know what I’m supposed to be arguing about!”

There are five million things Nerris wants to say right now.

_The point is that this is our shot to make it as musicians._

_The point is that I have worked too long and too hard to give this up because you’re suddenly getting cold feet._

_The point is that finding a replacement drummer to learn an entire setlist in less than two weeks will be near-impossible._

_The point is that I love you, and I can’t handle you leaving me twice in the same day._

She doesn’t get to say any of them. She stares into the headlights of a pickup truck hurtling down the wrong side of the street, and yanks the wheel in a desperate attempt to swerve around it. Her PT Cruiser spins out into a ditch. There’s a dull _thunk_ as Nikki’s head crashes against the dashboard.

And then everything is quiet.


End file.
